He spotted a few men who matched Hughes’s general description. Mid-thirties, dark hair, blue eyes. But he’d place his bets on the one striding from the building far behind the depot. The man was too far away to see eye color, and a top hat covered his hair, but Slade knew authority.
He leaned against a lamppost, though it was likely to earn him soot marks on his worsted wool suit. Despite the gnawing inside that made him want to hurry, he would wait. Pinkerton had trained him well in how to assume a role, and the biggest trick was never to overplay one’s hand.
Even when the role one was assuming was one’s own.
Of their own volition, his fingers found the silver chain of his borrowed watch fob. The metal was warm against the bitter air, warm as a long-gone memory. Odd how aware it made him of the price of war, the soul-breaking cost of betrayal. Of how his chance to set it all to rights was ticking away.
What an ugly time they lived in.
He released the fob and folded his arms, expelling a long puff of white breath. The passers-by hurried along, mothers adjusting their children’s coats as they stepped out of doors, gentlemen pulling hats down. The man he had been watching drew nearer, near enough to spot Slade in their agreed-upon location. He knew he, too, matched the description Hughes would have been given. A shade taller than average, hair nearly black under his bowler, lean. A description that fit any number of men milling about.
That had fit one too many before.
He waited for the man’s gaze to wander his way and then lifted his right hand to rub his forefinger above his lip. Recognition kindled in the other set of eyes, and the answering left hand came up, thumb and forefinger taking hold of his left ear.
Slade pushed away from the lamppost and let his coat fall into place around his knees while the man closed the distance between them, hand extended. He knew the Knights’ grip—that he must press his thumb against the knuckle while they shook—but it felt odd.
“Mr. Osborne, I presume. I’m Devereaux Hughes.”
Slade nodded and reclaimed his hand. “Good of you to come meet me, Mr. Hughes.”
“Good of you to travel to Baltimore.” Calculation sharpened the blue of his eyes, though his smile was the epitome of Southern charm. “You spent several years in Washington City before this, correct?”
It took all his willpower not to curl his hand into a fist. Several years nearly undone by the last three months in the field. “That’s right.”
Hughes waited, but Slade offered no more. Words, he had learned long ago, could hang one as quickly as a rope. After a moment’s pause, the other man smiled and motioned to his right. “Shall we go? I have sent a note to my mother and sister-in-law that we would have a guest for dinner tonight.”
“Certainly.” And that was the part of this business he was not looking forward to—socializing. But at least, with the war having washed all the color out of this gray, drab world, no one would expect him to be jovial.
After giving instruction to a stevedore to take care of his trunk, he followed Hughes toward a waiting carriage. Neither spoke until the door closed upon them, the thunk of the trunk sounded on the roof, and the driver’s “Yah!” prompted a lurch into motion.
Then Hughes’s eyes went sharp, and he leaned against the cushion. “I admit, Mr. Osborne, that your letter of introduction piqued my curiosity. You say you have not been officially inducted?”
Slade made himself comfortable. “Not in Washington. Too many old friends watching.”
Those sharp eyes sparked. “Indeed. Though I am curious as to why someone so…dedicated, shall we say, to one cause should turn so suddenly to the opposite view.”
A question he had pondered long and hard himself. Only one conclusion presented itself. “I suppose it wasn’t so sudden.”
“Hmm.” The man regarded him for a long moment and made no attempt to hide his perusal.
Let him look his fill. Slade knew well what he would see. The picture Ross had crafted for him—hard shell, empty insides. A picture easily donned again when he realized how deep his brother’s hatred had run.
At length, Hughes nodded and relaxed. His acceptance couldn’t possibly be so easily won, but Slade was happy to forego an interrogation here and now. He’d had enough of those for a while.
The man adjusted his gloves and offered a smile. “I understand you are from New York City. Are you related to the Osbornes of Fifth Avenue?”
He nearly snorted. “My father is a minister in Brooklyn.”
Hughes’s eyes dimmed. No doubt if Slade didn’t have the information he so wanted, he would have booted him to the cobblestones with a kick to his poor Yankee posterior. Rich, powerful Northerners were of the utmost interest to the Knights. But common ones?
His host studied the fine wool of Slade’s coat. “You seem to have risen above such humble origins.”
How many years had he wasted trying to do just that? Rise above what didn’t need leaving? But the Slade Osborne this man needed to know hadn’t realized the error of his ways. He kept his face neutral. “I’ve done well enough.”